


Precious Cargo

by murdergatsby



Category: Z Nation (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Panic Attacks, Pre-show, Reanimation, Suicidal Thoughts, Zombie Bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 12:37:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15930590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murdergatsby/pseuds/murdergatsby
Summary: A recount of what Murphy went through just after he was found by Mark Hammond, still alive.





	Precious Cargo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [humanveil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/gifts).



> I had the realization that the only person Murphy had to take care of him directly after he was bitten was Hammond. I don't necessarily care for how Hammond treated Murphy in the show- insufferable as he is. SO,,
> 
> Gifted to [humanveil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil) because they also love Murphy ?? And liked the tweet I tweeted when I started this quickfic (6 months ago), which has sustained me.
> 
> I don't know if they want this. I just love them. They can reject it, and I'll still love them.
> 
> I wrote this because I hate myself. I hope you enjoy. <3

The sound of metal on metal is what woke him. The pain he was in caught up with him slowly.

Murphy’s breath came to his lungs with the same forceful shock of a fist, making him cough it right back out. He was still on the table he had been left to die on, but his straps had been removed. The now tattered bits of leather were hanging loose below him- the cause of the abrasive metallic clangs. One of the soldiers who had put him there- the man he remembered being called  _ Hammond _ \- hovered over him, observing the open wounds that pocketed Murphy’s chest and stomach.

“You’re alive.” Hammond observed, recovering from the jump he took upon seeing Murphy move so suddenly. His tone was flat like he wasn’t surprised, nor relieved. He was simply stating a fact.

“I am?” Murphy replied. His voice came out strangled, and his throat felt rough around the words. He tasted blood and wondered what part of him it was coming from,  _ specifically _ .

Everything below his clavicle ached like a fresh bruise, and stung like the time he caught his shin against the flatbed of his friend’s truck- like only the first few layers of skin had been stripped away from him, exposing new parts of him to the rugged filth of the room. However, he knew it wasn’t just skin he was missing. He figured it was an element of shock that was making the handfuls-  _ mouthfuls _ \- of flesh taken from him feel like empty voids in his ability to feel. He could see them, and knew they should hurt more- imagined they should hurt  _ differently _ \- but they just felt… like emptiness.

He knew it hadn’t initially been like that, because it had been the pain that put him to sleep. He couldn’t remember what it felt like then, either, and searching for it in his mind summoned a deep nausea. He figured that the fight to remember it wouldn’t be worth it; aching, stinging emptiness was fine.

Hammond arched his eyebrow and nodded, eyes wide with bewilderment. 

“Doesn’t feel like it.” Murphy groaned. He took note of the way Hammond held the gun slung around his neck: ready.

“Doesn’t really look like it, either.” Hammond muttered, mostly to himself but loud enough for Murphy to hear.

He kept scanning Murphy’s body with his eyes, like Murphy had writing on him he couldn’t quite grasp. Without warning, he brought his hand to Murphy’s abdomen, making swift contact with the torn opening at the base of Murphy’s ribcage. Murphy’s body tensed and pulled away, appearing to Hammond as if he were seizing. Hammond’s hand flinched away with the same intensity that Murphy moved with, finding its home right back on his gun.

“What are you doing?” Murphy shouted. Just for a moment, he tricked himself into believing that Hammond’s flinch stemmed from kindness; he moved away because he realized he had hurt Murphy, and that Murphy was in a great deal of pain. However, he quickly realized Hammond’s actions were stemming from fear and nothing else.  _ It was selfish. _

“I’m assessing your injuries.” Hammond explained, sternly. “I need you to hold still.”

Murphy forced what he hoped would be an endearing chuckle. “Can’t you do that from over there?”

“No.” Hammond replied, in the same tone as before. His hands stayed on his gun.

Murphy sighed and let his focus fall.

Hammond put his hand back on Murphy when he felt the time was right- when Murphy seemed physically relaxed enough. He wasn’t sure what he was dealing with.

He wasn’t gentle about how he touched Murphy; he went right back into the edges of the nasty gouge of gore that left Murphy’s ribcage open, and moved it as if he were trying to open Murphy up even further.

Murphy cried out again, fell tense again, but this time Hammond didn’t pull away. He knew it was just pain, and that Murphy would get over it if he just grit his teeth.

He was trying to observe Murphy’s bleeding, but there wasn’t much to see. There was a lot of blood  _ on him _ but it didn’t seem like he was still  _ bleeding. _ The way his body was treating his wounds did not match the damage Hammond was seeing.

Murphy should have been bleeding out. Murphy shouldn’t be surviving this- shouldn’t have survived this long. He certainly shouldn’t be trying to  _ chuckle _ his way into making Hammond think he was something worth showing affection.

_ It… Must have worked. Is this what ‘working’ looks like? _

“Hey, could you-” Murphy choked. His hands had already balled into fists, and his eyes were cloudy with tears. He wanted Hammond to  _ stop _ .

“I think you’re missing a rib.” Hammond said, interrupting. He pulled his hand back and tried to keep his new found excitement about  _ the cure _ to himself. “Two, maybe.”

“Yeah, they-” Murphy began, ready to explain the shadowy memory of hands and bones- like it was just a dirty dish in his sink, and not anything of more weight. Then, the true horror of Hammond’s statement settled within him.  _ I think you’re missing a rib. Two, maybe. _

Murphy already knew we was missing ribs, because he had seen them drawn out of him. He had seen them fought over, sucked on, and discarded. He could hear the sound they made against the cement floor echoing between his ears.

He knew he had been bitten-  _ eaten _ \- and suddenly he realized just how dead he was supposed to be.

“They-” Murphy stammered, a distinct change in his tone as his brain spiraled into a place of panic. He wanted to explain everything- as if he had something to explain, and as if Hammond wasn’t ⅓ of the people directly responsible for him even being here- but he couldn’t get the words to build past the sound of his bones clattering to the floor.

It was is if their hands were in him again, as if their teeth were still breaking him open. His breath started catching on things that were no longer there. Every sensation around him felt so  _ loud _ , and he just wanted everything to shut off for a minute so he could find something to anchor him.  _ Just a minute. Just a minute. _

He started to hyperventilate, and lift himself up as if he wanted to try and leave. Hammond slap-tapped at his cheek, pushing him back down to the steel table by the shoulder. He held him at the jaw, squeezing him and making Murphy look at him.

“You need to collect yourself, inmate.” Hammond snapped. He held him like that until he he saw Murphy’s eye focus on him.

Murphy opened his mouth as if he wanted to speak but, instead, he coughed a mouthful of black blood up into Hammond’s face. 

Hammond released Murphy and, in a single fluid motion, brought the barrel of his gun to Murphy’s forehead. He didn’t pull the trigger, and Murphy didn’t know why, because all he heard in his head was his own voice begging Hammond to  _ “Do it.” _

Murphy laid there in silence. Shaking. Waiting. Covered in black.

“You good?” Hammond asked, when the silence had lingered long enough.

“Just fine.” Murphy replied. He smiled, weakly, and shrugged his shoulders.

Hammond nodded. “Good.”

Hammond took his gun out of Murphy’s face, and started to wander around the room. He was looking for the safest way out and, once he found it, he went back to barking at Murphy.

“Get up.” He instructed.

Murphy tried sit up, and tried to move his legs. The whole process was agonizing. His brain didn’t want want to send the signals to the right places, and he had no confidence his legs would even  _ work _ if they ever got there.

“I don’t know if I can.” Murphy whined.

Hammond breathed deeply, exasperated. He returned to Murphy’s side with a quickness that made Murphy flinch. Without a single word, Hammond dug his fingernail into an unmarked spot on Murphy’s thigh with the sole intention of making him squirm in agony.

“Why?” Murphy shouted.

“Seems like you can feel them fine.” Hammond said. “Try harder. We need to get you to the CDC.”

Hammond took his hand away, and Murphy gasped as though he had been choking  _ again _ . 

_ The CDC,  _ he thought.  _ So, what? I’m important now? _

Murphy managed to sit himself up with a weak groan, and get onto his feet with only the  _ slightest _ threat of fainting. Every movement he made filled his body with a tense ache that he had never before felt. It was as though his skin had a headache, and his bones were plagued with nausea.

“Hammond?” Murphy called.

Hammond looked back at him- passively- waiting for whatever it is Murphy could possibly want from him now.

“I’m a human being.” Murphy reminded. His tone was confident, and he was proud of that.

Hammond looked him up and down. He observed the way Murphy’s shoulders slouched forward, and the way his eyes seemed hallowed and haunted. Murphy’s brought his arms across this belly as if he were holding himself together. He looked like one the dead.

“Yeah.” Hammond snorted. “We’ll see about that.”


End file.
